


creating a radio play just for two

by s0dafucker



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Hate Sex, M/M, Set in early season 2, frederick chilton is a NASTY MAN, im in love w him, stupid little man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 14:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21101060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: unorthodox practices.





	creating a radio play just for two

there’s a neat scar on frederick’s stomach, long and thin and red. surgically precise.

hannibal’s tongue traces it, and he shivers. 

‘listen,’ he says, and hannibal looks up, impartial as ever. (there’s a warm set to his mouth that feels like triumph.) ‘this isn’t-’ 

‘i know.’ his voice is low and measured. frederick feels fumbling in comparison. 

‘we don’t have to talk about it.’ hannibal is too broad. too encompassing. he pushes forward and frederick leans with him. his back against the chair; his head almost lost enough to follow. he wishes they were in bed. better for his leg that way.

‘what would you rather?’ he opens his mouth obligingly enough, an amused smile pressed against hannibal’s lips, and his tongue- one of them tastes like blood, and frederick doesn’t care who. they both taste enough like whiskey. 

‘you want to talk?’ his mouth has shifted, at some point, fever-warm against frederick’s neck- he tilts his head to assist, reaches up to hold the vest at hannibal’s back. seek some sort of purchase.

‘it’d be hard to stop me.’ a psychiatrist sort of joke, an in-joke at his own expense, the only thing resembling dry wit he can conjure up with hannibal’s teeth so insistent at his jugular you’d think he was trying to bite it out; but it amuses him- frederick can feel his smile, and the hot huff of breath he’ll take in place of a laugh. 

‘it could be arranged,’ his tongue, again, at his pulse. his voice something of a purr. ‘doctor chilton.’ he’s being rewarded.

that comes with its own questions that frederick shelves in the interest of chasing his tail, clinging tighter to hannibal’s vest. (his shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbows. maybe it was frederick’s burning gaze on his hands that began this in the first place.)

‘doctor lecter-’ god, he isn’t going to get a sentence out like this; hannibal’s hands are wandering, now, multitasking, an index finger dragging up and down the scar. it’s a horrible thing, gentle enough to make him try to get away, arching his back and only meeting hannibal again. there’s so fucking much of him. he sticks a pin through the butterfly’s wing and frederick thrashes the best he can. 

‘doctor lecter,’ he tries again, drawing him closer. one palm splayed on hannibal’s broad back, the muscles beneath tense and powerful. hannibal gets a hand underneath his open shirt, pushing it back from his chest, his ribs. slips it off. his palms have odd callouses. ‘will graham’s been telling me some interesting things.’

that gets him. not notably, not anything you’d notice from listening at the keyhole, but a change in breath, a sweep of his fingers over frederick’s nipple with some vaguely sadistic intent. ‘will graham is an interesting individual. i’m sure you have something of a, ah,’ teeth, sharp and wet and- frederick nearly screams- ‘professional fascination.’ 

frederick gets a hand on his chest. digs his fingers into hannibal’s shoulder. pushes.

(hannibal looks at him straight-on. into the very heart of him, it feels like. frederick actually blushes, feels it right down to his chest, sucks in a heady, shaking breath.)

hannibal’s eyes are very nearly black, in this light. head tilted, considering. desiring. there’s a challenge in him somewhere. 

‘i don’t know what you’re insinuating.’ hannibal’s broad palms encompass his whole chest. there’s a scar on the bridge of his nose. in another life, a better version of this, frederick finds a way to kiss it. in this slapdash retelling, hannibal touches the bite mark he left with gentle fingers.

‘you’ll bruise,’ he says. (frederick scowls.)

his hand opens, the fingers spread. he gets a ghost of a grip on frederick’s throat and he smiles, eyes narrowed. _ what’ll you do, then. _

frederick swallows and his adam’s apple bumps up against hannibal’s palm. rough. the inherent prey-feeling of a position like this- frederick isn’t moving, now. this isn’t the sort of grip to twist away from. it’s strangely grounding. 

‘so you want to talk about will.’ not a question. 

frederick glowers up at him. ‘among other things.’ he doesn’t like this unbalancing, this quick sleight of hand hannibal’s so good at. the hand on his throat tightens- a warning?- and then releases. hannibal busies himself with undoing frederick’s pants. 

(will fucking graham. hannibal has, irritatingly, hit a nerve.)

‘he’s an interesting case study.’ his eyes jump from frederick’s cock to his face. watching reactions. frederick makes him work for them. ‘but that’s not why you’re so enamored, hm?’

‘takes one to know one.’ cheap. easy. earns him a sharp twist of the wrist. it feels so adolescent, a handjob and an argument, and it almost makes him laugh to think of a teenaged hannibal. makes him smile anyway, draws out something other than the practiced hunter’s grins he usually wears. it’s embarrassing. 

‘do you have feelings for him?’ hannibal says it almost like a joke. frederick leans back to look at the ceiling and scoffs like it is one.

(he thinks of will graham. how badly he needs a haircut. how he smells like sweat, the dark circles under his eyes. he needs a shave, too, now that frederick thinks about it, will graham and his air of unkemptness. he is disgusting. and yet.)

‘could we-’ hannibal is going so slowly, so aching and fever-hot, and it’s pissing frederick off and his back aches besides- he casts a pleading glance to the couch and cants his hips up and says, steady as he can, ‘could we lie down?’

hannibal goes digging in a desk drawer. ‘tell me about will.’

‘he’s a psychopath.’ (hannibal’s fingers, slippery and cold, grope his balls just-too-hard. he yelps.)

‘he’s beautiful,’ frederick tries- it costs him something- and hannibal presses at his hole gently, a primal sort of pleasure, their heartbeats up-close. it’s as sappy as frederick can bring himself to be- an acknowledgement of hannibal’s quick pulse in the pads of his fingers. he reaches inside him. asks only that frederick reveal what he finds there. ‘he’s- i think he’s beautiful. handsome.’

‘it’s a rather vulnerable beauty, don’t you find.’ it’s so fucked, to do this. they’re talking about a patient. they’re talking about a murderer. frederick’s trying his hardest to fuck himself on hannibal’s fingers. (he can’t manage it. the angle’s all wrong. his skin sticks arbitrarily to the leather upholstery, coming loose and sweat-slick when it pleases.)

‘you think he’s vulnerable?’

‘terribly so.’

everyone must look vulnerable from hannibal’s vantage point- it’s a comfort to think that will, too, would be dwarfed by him. frederick’s never had a complex about that kind of thing- he’s got too many degrees to feel insecure in such inconsequential, masculine ways- but hannibal makes him feel so acutely small. 

‘i think he’s strong.’ rude, is more like it. rude and fond of keeping that stubborn set to his jaw. stoic.

‘will graham has endured more than you ever could, and with barely a complaint.’ frederick doesn’t argue, and hannibal curls his fingers expertly up into his prostate. he reaches out blindly, grabs at hannibal’s shirt collar, clutches tightly. holds on for dear life.

hannibal pulls out, quick and smooth, and frederick whines, too high and too loud and his face burns; hannibal gives him a look that drips with amusement. he wipes his wet hand on the inside of frederick’s thigh. (frederick tries and fails to kick him.)

hannibal grabs him by the hips, pulls him down, gets him mostly-horizontal. doesn’t give him much warning before he- fuck- replaces the empty feeling with his cock, leaving frederick scrambling for somewhere to sink his fingers in, his teeth, do something with the sensation. he manages to get a hand around hannibal’s forearm, and he grabs. he likes the thought of leaving fingernail marks.

hannibal reaches with his other arm, grabs his good leg and bends it up to his chest; it burns, tight and aching, but asking him to let it go is the furthest thing from frederick’s mind. hannibal fucks like he does anything, practiced and elegant, grinding slick and slow and hot and grinning down at frederick’s writhing. his hair is a mess. frederick takes a fierce pride in it.

‘c’mon,’ he pushes down, his skin flush with the leather, voice cracking and betraying him. ‘you can move, c’mon,’ his hands fighting for purchase, unsteady rock-climber searching, as hannibal lets go of his hip and runs the hand through his hair. there’s buttons undone all over him, his grin wolfish, and frederick screws his eyes shut tight and chokes out, ‘please- please, harder, c’mon,’

(he’s rewarded, for this small humiliation.)

(he wonders if hannibal pretends he’s will, when they’re together like this. it doesn’t bother him, particularly. gets under his skin a bit, but it’ll be comfortable there.)

(will’s got nice eyes. frederick wonders what he looks like when he cums.)

(he wonders if will thinks about being in this position.)

-

hannibal pours him another glass of whiskey. 

‘do you smoke?’ he asks, picking his jacket up off the floor and rummaging through the pockets.

he puts it between his teeth and talks around it, buttoning his shirt haphazardly. he should’ve opened a window. (hannibal can live with it.)

‘you look like hell.’ it isn’t unaffectionate.

frederick eyes him over the rim of his glass. he can’t help his smile. ‘so i’m just your type.’

**Author's Note:**

> love that pretentious weasel man......... hes so nasty and stupid and hot


End file.
